Longcoated Ignis Fatuus
by LemonSmoothie
Summary: One-shot for now. Ford meticulously documented his travels bouncing around the multiverse, but there's several things he's left off the record. Nontraditional pairing.


"Longcoated Ignis Fatuus"

Time: December 2012

Place: Piedmont, CA, USA. Specifically, the Pines household.

"Dip-dop?"

"What?" Dipper Pines lowered his comic book to his twin sister, Mabel.

"Has Grunkle Ford ever told you about a poem?" Mabel asked, looking at her patent-leather Mary Janes. And lack of eye contact was always a bad sign.

Their great-uncles Stan and Ford were taking a break from their round-the-world investigation cruise to spend Christmas with Dipper, Mabel, and their parents.

"Poem?" Dipper repeated, confused. "I don't think Grunkle Ford is into poetry."

Mabel looked downcast. "Oh. I asked Grunkle Stan, but he didn't know either." She passed Dipper a well-worn sheet of paper.

The paper, once white, was yellowed with age. It had been folded over and over. The edges were blunt. In rather nice script in black ink was a single poem:

_In the light of the sun, I drape my scarf over the chair, _

_What should I do, my heart swells, _

_Even if these flashes fade to black, even if we fall to darkness, _

_I beg you, don't let go of my hand_

_Take me away with your silent melancholy_

_For this is the love my heart found in this infinite multiverse_

_The constellations spread out in a tapestry _

_My love for you grows and grows, _

_Longcoated Ignis Fatuus_

_Longcoated Ignis Fatuus_

_What should I do? My voice catches in my throat_

_Even if these tears dry up, even if the world forgets us both_

_I beg of you, do not stop those kisses_

_I want to be carried away by your scent of evergreen_

_For this was the love my heart pledged _

_Gently hold me close amidst the twinkling lights_

_Never, never flicker out,_

_Longcoated Ignis Fatuus _

_The constellations spread out in a tapestry, _

_My love for you grows and grows, _

_Longcoated Ignis Fatuus _

_Longcoated Ignis Fatuus_

"You know how you wondered about the Author of the Journals?" Mabel shifted uneasily. "Trying so desperately to picture him in your head? That's exactly how I feel about whoever wrote this poem. This is feminine handwriting, so I think it was Grunkle Ford's girlfriend."

Dipper frowned. "No matter who wrote this, Mabel, this is an incredible breach of privacy! You have to give this back."

"I didn't take it on purpose. It fell out of Grunkle Ford's notebook last week. I was going to give it back, but Mom called us for dinner. I put it in my pocket to give it to him later, but I completely forgot. And then I opened it and read it. And I loved it, so I read it again."

"I feel so guilty for reading this," Dipper said. "It's so personal! What if…?"

"What if Pacifica wrote you a love poem?" Mabel asked. "You wouldn't show it to me?"

"I most certainly would not!" Dipper said.

"Oh, so you admit there's a possibility Pacifica would write you a love poem?" Mabel giggled.

Dipper rolled his eyes. "Of course not. She still has an allowance that dwarfs ours, so she could pay someone to write one." But a light blush had settled on his cheeks.

Mabel sighed. "I promise I'll give it back right now. But who do you think wrote it?"

"If I had to guess, someone Grunkle Ford knew before he fell into that portal thirty years ago? There's a chance whoever wrote this is no longer alive. I tell you, Mabel, you're sticking a fork in the toaster if you're thinking about asking him point-blank." Dipper turned back to his comic.

"Well, my muffin is stuck!" Mabel's cheeks puffed out.

"He probably would rather not talk about it." Dipper went back to flipping a page. "Just remember, the last time he and Grunkle Stan had a fight, they didn't talk for thirty years, and Grunkle Ford still felt the need to punch him."

"Ugh, what is it about men and not talking about your feelings?" Mabel pouted. "Fine. I'll give it back to him." She left the bedroom and crossed the house to the living room, where Ford and Stan were sharing a sofa bed.

"Grunkle Ford?"

"Yes, Mabel?" Ford was seated on the side of the sofa bed. Stan was in an armchair on the opposite side of the room, absorbed in some high-brow-looking movie on the TV.

"I need to give this back to you." Mabel held out the paper.

"Where did you get this?" Ford's voice was even and neutral.

"It fell out of your notebook," Mabel said. "I wanted to give it back, but I was embarrassed. And curious."

"Oh. I thought I lost it. That it was gone forever. Thank you, Mabel. This is very precious to me."

"Who wrote that pretty poem?" Mabel asked.

"Someone who cared very deeply for me."

"Was she someone you knew before the portal?"

"No. After."

"How long ago was it?"

"Ten years, give or take."

"So the Poetess is still alive?" Mabel asked hopefully.

"I hope so, but…"

"Then can't you see her again?" Mabel asked.

"I cannot."

Mabel put her hands on her hips. "Why not? Are you too scared?"

"It's not that," Ford sighed. "It's too dangerous. I can't rebuild the portal. The rift could re-form. Bill might be gone, but those other demons might still be alive in the Nightmare Realm. Supposedly, Bill wasn't even the worst demon out there. And then there's the risk to the world itself."

"But that's too sad! Did you even get to tell her goodbye?!"

"No, I did not," Ford said. "There is no magic wand I can wave to change what happened. It's better to just forget it."

"Then why did you keep it all this time?" Mabel asked. "You had it for ten years. You could have thrown it away at any time! Why didn't you?"

"I don't know!" Ford snapped. "Habit? Penance?"

"I think you do want to see her again," Mabel said.

"That's impossible," Ford said. "We're done here."

"Can you just tell me one thing about her?" Mabel demanded.

"Will you drop it if I do?" Ford asked.

Mabel extended her hand. "Deal."

"Very well," Ford shook her hand. "She loved adventure and had a pilot's license."

"All right," Mabel said weakly. "I won't ask anymore." She walked back toward her room.

Ford sighed. He didn't mean to upset Mabel. He'd apologize to her tomorrow. Maybe offer to take her to the craft store, buy her some of those glittery stickers she loved so much. He carefully folded up the paper containing the poem, removed Journal #4 from the nearby end table, and pressed it carefully into its pages. The original three Journals, miraculously restored since Bill's defeat, had long been tossed into the Bottomless Pit.

He had left his whirlwind romance out of those pages anyway. Even though he scribbled down his own non-scientific thoughts from time to time, his dalliances with romance seemed too far removed. Unempirical.

"Our worlds are on opposite sides of a gulf that cannot be traversed. It was silly to think love between us was ever possible." Ford mumbled to himself, drowned out by Stan yelling at the TV screen. His mind turned to the last conversation he had before leaving her world. Not with her, but with her brother after things went wrong in the most unexpected way.

_"I want you to leave, Stanford. And don't come back. Ever." _

_"But what about the..." _

_"I'll take them care of them. Raise them as if they were my own. You don't have to worry." _

_"This was beyond my control. You know that." _

_He didn't gesture with his hands, just kept them clenched into fists at his side. "You poisoned her. Told her about the worlds you've seen, all the amazing things you've done. Put all those crazy ideas in her head!" _

_"You're her twin. You knew she always wanted to go into space! You're just blaming me…" _

_"It isn't just that," The glare was acidic, the voice even more so. "It's that you don't belong here. You don't belong in this world. You never have." _

_That was plain and simple truth. He was an outsider. No amount of arguing could change that fact. "But she made me want to belong to this world." _

_"Well, she can't anymore. And I'm not sure you belong to any world." _

_"Would you at least tell my children that I'm sorry?" Ford asked. _

_"No." His love's twin shakes his head. "They won't even know your name."_

Ford took off his glasses and pinched his nose. He thought to himself: _Della, I hope you survived, and have returned to be with your family forevermore. And my sons…I don't even know your names. But if Donald found in his heart to tell you about me, I only ask that you forgive me. Your mom's Longcoated Foolish Fire._


End file.
